Tequila, Rose and Cigarettes
by Meabd
Summary: Vices and tensions meet on the fine line between having it all together and watching the world burn.
1. Prologue

_Tequila, Rose and Cigarettes: Prologue_

Ed knew that his posture left something to be desired—years of hunching over textbooks and notes with no regard to self lent to that inevitability, yet he never felt it more than in his nights spent on the town with Mustang's men. Habit now, more than desire, drew Ed to the local bar where the office would collectively get their kicks after the humdrum of military day-to-day life was abandoned. One drink turned to three or five and by that point even Hawkeye was sporting a small smile; every member, even Mustang himself, indulged in the simple social ritual. Falman and Breda had an easy slouch as they sipped their beer, relaxed, yet still tight at the shoulders—a product, perhaps, of their years in the service. Havoc with characteristic cigarette always lit lounged always to the left, letting one long elegant arm, tobacco clutched lovingly between his fingers, trail the ground as he nursed his gin and tonic. Hawkeye was the picture of control, even in the summer heat, as her crisp blue jacket lay upon her slim shoulder rather than the back of the chair, like the rest of the men had done... her slow appreciation for her single glass of merlot (no more than one, despite how long they lingered) lent an air of sophistication, easy to see when accompanied by her ramrod posture and graceful grasp on the stem of her glass. Hughes sat close to his friend, touching Mustang's wrist to punctuate a particular detail in his story... green eyes matched blue with equal humour and friendship, and Ed found himself bristling at their closeness, longing to worm his way into the confidence of the impenetrable life of the Brigadier-General. In fact, even Mustang was the picture of friendliness (albeit that so of a superior) as he knocked back whisky after whisky, always neat and never acting out of bounds, no matter how far in he got in to the night. He conversed easily with his subordinates and best friend with an easy charisma born from a man that never knew inadequacy.

To his mind, it seemed that only Ed was the odd man out, with his single shot of tequila heating over sadly melting ice cubes. He nursed his drink, not ready for the grass of fuzzy alcohol stupor that would eventually break down his impeccable façade. Ed wasn't dressed for the military, nor did he care that his lazy demeanour set him apart from the others. His family, big as it may have grown with the addition of Mustang's office, didn't need appearances to dictate inclusion. Ed, of course, felt off without Al's presence—yes he came, but only on weekends when classes didn't occupy his mind and time—and when he _was_ there Ed had to be particularly wary with his gaze, lest it fall upon the object of his obsession. Not that Al would mind... his little brother cared nothing but for his happiness, however, when happiness was so ostensibly out of reach Ed felt compelled to ease the hurt, not just from his own soul, but also that of his newly human brother's.

Ultimately, Ed felt alone. Not because of exclusion, mind you, but because of the low, simmering spark in his stomach, something that refused to be ignored. Every night at the bar was absolute torture as he sat mere feet away from the man that had stolen every conscious thought and invaded every waking dream— _Mustang_. Ed had seen the attraction coming a mile away; starting as a childhood crush and then blossoming into something more as the chase for the stone and the search for Al's body faded away into blissful past. The fact of the matter was that the eldest Elric was loathe to spend any time more than necessary around the Flame Alchemist because he simply couldn't handle the raw need that dragged upon his nerves.

Roy— _no, Mustang_ —was a ladies man at heart, and there wasn't a chance in hell that he shared the same proclivity toward male flesh that Ed did. It was a perversion, one that should be studiously avoided, if the general sentiment of Central was to be believed. Ed did _not_ believe that. Night after night these easy social gatherings took place, oblivious to the longing glances cast from aureate eyes upon the marble and sapphire god that was an untouchable commanding officer. And so Fullmetal sat, cushioned between the warm comfort of Havoc and Hawkeye, spared from most conversations, save for the most simple pleasantries. He was free to watch with a careful eye, every action and reaction of his closest threat sparked across his nerves, each individual gesture igniting a new flame, a new facet open for observation.

Ed inevitably lost himself amidst the dull heat of his own troubled fantasies as he quietly observed the dark haired enigma that was his superior. Thank _god_ he wasn't know for being egregious, or the game would be up. All he had to do now was wretch his attention elsewhere wand find another object to be obsessed upon. _We'll see how that goes._


	2. Booze

_Chapter 1: Booze_

There's something to be said for the easy cameradie that one finds in bars, a space reserved for loosened inhibitions and friendly banter so unlike every other situation people live with in their day to day lives. A quiet bar filled with the lingering smell of smoke, spirits and sweat brings out something in people that transforms colleagues and associates into friends and confidants. This is, perhaps, the main draw of the regular evening outings with subordinates that brings Roy Mustang back every night. People that he's known for years transform before his eyes, letting loose in a way that is impossible in the corridors of military buildings; they bloom in the dim lights of street lamps and the hazy smoke-filled urban air, nourished by jokes and biting sarcasm.

At least, most of them do.

Roy's steely blue eyes glanced over the young major sitting on the bench across from him, feet propped up on the low table between them as he leaned very slightly against Havoc, gold eyes focused intently on Hughes as he spoke. An uncomfortable weight settled in the General's stomach, heavy and foreign as he drank in the image of his youngest subordinate. Times like this, out of the office and away from the harshly judging eyes around him, Roy let his gazes linger longer than he probably should.

When he developed this unnatural, electrifying draw toward Fullmetal, Roy could not say—one thing was sure, though, and it was the unquestionable need to ignore it. He railed against the sparks blazing along his skin, rejecting them hard and fast lest they overwhelm him and he lost even a modicum of his control.

Not that Ed was making it any easier. The beautiful sonofabitch had an innate poise; despite the clunky auto mail he moved with an almost predatory grace. Even with his shoulders hunched as they were, sprawled lazily between colleagues, his human hand held the empty tumbler of tequila loosely between long, calloused fingers, rolling it in his palm as he lost himself in the hum of conversation.

Roy blinked, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotising young man before him and down to his empty glass.

"Fullmetal?"

Ed glanced up as Roy nodded toward the glass in his hand, shaking his own in a silent _one more?_ Ed appeared to consider his options before shrugging and handing the tumbler over to Roy's outstretched hand—he was only two deep to the General's three, but he was no lightweight. Roy nodded, then turned to head inside the bar, intent on drowning out the voice in his head that begged to touch the young alchemist, that pleaded with his better sense to throw caution to the wind and brush that infuriatingly beautiful golden hair out of his face and lean in just barely to— _shut the_ fuck _up_.

"Tequila, top shelf and whisky, neat. Put them on my tab," Roy shook himself free of those damnable intrusive thoughts as he watched the bartender pour amber liquid into crystalline glasses. This _had_ to stop. It wasn't healthy, much less possible. _If_ Ed found himself amenable to attentions from a man (doubtful, in and of itself) his absolute apathy to Roy was tangible, and those were the good days. More often than not their professional relationship was strained, drawn tight between two stubborn, warring personalities.

Dark eyes lowered to the tumblers waiting on the bar in front of him. Roy nodded in thanks as he grabbed them and made his way back to the lion's den. For what was probably the millionth time he contemplated these amicable nights, seriously considering taking the path of least resistance and just going home, never returning to that damn bar and putting an end to social time with his subordinates. It wasn't the most professional behavior, and it would most likely be better for Roy's sanity.

And yet, at heart, the Flame Alchemist was a raging masochist. He couldn't bring himself to give up these little stolen moments, basking in the presence of a man that was so far out of his reach.

 _Come on Mustang, get yourself together_.

Roy schooled his face into a smirk, the picture of cool charisma as he approached Ed, hand outstretched offering up the icy glass.

"Thanks, Mustang—" Ed's low, rumbling voice hitched on the simple platitude as their hands brushed and the blonde's auto mail fingers twitched just barely, letting the glass slip between cold steel. Roy's brow furrowed, had he felt the same jolt?

"Hey boss, you alright? You're drenched," Havoc scooted away from the wetness on the bench. The tangy, slightly bitter scent of tequila floated up to Roy's nose as he considered the young man who looked just as shocked as he felt.

"I'm fine. Automail's acting up, it's alright," Roy sidestepped the low table between them and grabbed Ed's human shoulder, nudging him up gently. "Come on Fullmetal, let's get you cleaned up. We can't have you walking home reeking of booze."

"I'm _fine_ ," the snarl was punctuated by Ed wrenching his arm away. Roy ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Be that as it may, how would it look on _me_ if I let a man under my command stumble home smelling like he'd just crawled out of a bottle?" Roy glanced over the table as if to say, _Yes, look at me, the ever suffering General_. Ed shot a dark glare, but said nothing else as he stalked back to the door.

Roy rolled his eyes, following not far behind the retreating alchemist. _I'm just concerned. If it's his automail it could be an injury. Yes... just concerned._

The musty air of the bar was bitter on his tongue and Roy's eyes watered from the lingering tobacco smoke. He pushed open the door to the bathroom to find Fullmetal, divested of his jacket as he scrubbed at it in the sink. The room was small at worn with age, Roy squeezed in beside the wall and took in the lithe form before him with hungry, appreciative eyes.

"Do you need help?" Ed shrugged, wincing visibly at the effort. The flame of lust extinguished as Roy picked up on the slight tremor of slim shoulders and lips drawn into a tight line. Circling to Ed's right side, Roy glanced at the scarred tissue where the steel port hugged golden flesh, tight, unforgiving, and wet with blood.

"What the fuck is that, Fullmetal?" Roy grit out uncharacteristic expletive from between clenched teeth, watching as Ed turned to get a better look in the mirror. "It's nothing. Probably just a screw loose, I'll call Winry tomorrow to come down and see to it," blood seeped out, slow and steady, quickly saturating the back of Ed's sleeveless shirt. It was a blessing he always wore black, anything else and he'd look positively gruesome.

"You should get someone to look at it tonight," Roy approached, gently moving the sticky cloth out of the way to get a better look at the wound. Ed braced his hands on the edge of the sink and abruptly straightened up, nearly colliding with the broad chest of his commanding officer. For a brief moment all was still and Roy took in a shuttering breath, revelling in _Ed_. He smelled of tequila and sweat and a summer day, and it took every inch of Roy's hard-won self restraint to pull away. Ed was still as he levelled a steely gaze at the man towering over him, gold eyes met blue ones in a stare that was almost intimant in its heat, and for a split second Roy saw something _off_ , something he had never seen in Ed before.

Blonde hair rustled from the movement of a minuscule, tight nod. "Al will do it," a small reassurance. Ed was so patently _bad_ at taking care of himself that hearing his quiet concession eased the hard edge of concern biting at the back of Roy's mind.

"Come on, I'm walking you home," with a small grumble of weak protest Ed grabbed the sopping wet red cloth from the dingy sink and followed Roy out the door. Roy struggled to not glance back as he squared his shoulders and kicked open the back door.

"I'm walking Fullmetal home, Breda, take care of my tab," Roy slipped some bills to the more than slightly buzzed Breda before grabbing his briefcase and nodding a polite goodbye to the rest.

The mismatched pair walked side by side, cooled by the sweet summer breeze that swept up the empty street. Roy's eyes cut to his left taking measure of his companion, he was behaving oddly. Ed was never this _cooperative_ , and it bothered the Flame Alchemist. Ed would normally rail at being told what to do, and yet now he was following mutely, almost docile. Whether it was the injury—which was admittedly not all that bad by Roy's estimates—the alcohol, or both, the answer was elusive, floating just out of grasp.

Silence hung between Ed and Roy as they ambled toward the Elric's apartment, and Roy found himself thinking back to that tiny, dirty bar bathroom. A shiver ran down his spine as his mind recalled the closeness of their warm bodies and the gentle prickling of Ed's distinctive smell, marred only by the acrid stench of tequila. To have something so close that one had been denying for so long wasn't just painful, it was the most delicious kind of torture imaginable, and _goddamn_ did Roy want more.

A quiet sigh brought the reverie to an end as Roy realised they were in front of the small apartment.

"Fucking _brilliant_ ," Ed's voice was tired, lacking any real anger. "I forgot, Al's visiting Winry. Won't be back till tomorrow night," keys jangled as they were removed from the pocket of the jacket that still hung limply over a human arm.

"I'll come up and get you sorted out then. Al won't be happy to see you've bled all over the place," Ed made no move to respond, but the distinct lack of a door slamming had Roy stepping over the threshold after only a moment to puzzle over it.

Roy hadn't spent much time in the Elric's apartment, and he'd never gone beyond the front hallway. Stepping in to the living room he looked around curiously as Ed flicked on the lights, Roy found himself amused at the striking dichotomy of the Elric brothers—it was very clear which desk belonged to whom, and Roy shook his head at the mess of papers, files and book strewn across what was evidently Ed's side.

"Bandages in the bathroom?" Roy shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves, a mute nod confirmed the assumption and Roy set out to the hallway, poking his head into each closed door as he searched for ceramic. He paused at one that was still slightly ajar, a gentle hand nudged it open and the smell of sunshine assaulted his senses.

Roy knew immediately that he'd made a mistake and that he should retreat, but Ed's roomed almost called out to him, warm and inviting as Roy shut his eyes against the images ghosting across his imagination. Perhaps that last whisky was a bad idea.

"Last door on the right," Ed's quiet voice came from the end of the hall and Roy glanced back, fiercely tamping down the hot blush that threatened to spill across his cheeks, marking his guilt. He nodded and motioned Ed back toward the living room before toeing the right door open with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. Roy made quick work of collecting bandages and antiseptic, but found himself lingering at the threshold; assuring himself that he would be completely professional and that despite the sizzling hum of attraction that lay just below his mask he would leave promptly and _never_ go back to bar nights with his coworkers.

One deep sigh escaped Roy's lips as he straitened his back and stepped in to the hall, intent on ignoring those particular demons.


	3. Flowers

_Chapter 2: Flowers_

It had taken every ounce of control Ed had not to scream. Pain seared hot and unbidden across his nerves and he fought tooth and nail to keep his head up and back straight during the short walk home. God knows what Mustang would've done had Ed just curled up and cried.

The strange thing was that as quickly as the pain started, it faded away—one moment Ed's body was bow tight, teeth clenched and fists balled, then the next the hurt was just _gone_ , replaced with a fuzzy kind of numbness. He sighed deeply, leaning back into the couch and running his human hand across his face in relief.

"You're getting blood on the cushions," Roy's low voice broke over Edward like the ocean's wave against a boat far too small to match its fury. He had to get that infuriatingly gorgeous man _out_ of his house and he had to do it _soon_ , because he really doubted the strength of his waning self control and didn't trust himself not to say or do something that went just too far.

"It'll come out, it always does," Ed shrugged, his eyes still closed. The shocking touch of a warm hand on his shoulder had his back ramrod straight and his mind on high alert. He glared at Mustang—how _dare_ this walking wet dream touch him, didn't he know how dangerous that was?

Mustang's hands were held up in an _I'm sorry, don't attack_ , but he looked more bemused than angry as he went to tugging off his gloves and setting out supplies. "Sit up and take off your shirt, I need to see what I'm doing," that rumbling bass teased at him, and Ed inwardly groaned at hearing the words that he had wanted to hear for so long in such a horribly different context. _You can do this Edward, just be an asshole and he won't notice anything different_.

Ed's hands went to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from his leather pants and whipping it over his head in one smooth motion. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest, certain that the fine pink blush settling high in his cheeks _must_ be visible. Ed knew his broken and battered body didn't carry much appeal, every other lover he'd known had studiously avoided looking at his scars and tried their best to not touch them, not talk about them, fuck, and run. That's probably why Ed's never had anything lasting—he absolutely can't stand the reactions, be they horror, pity, or disgust.

Golden eyes stared down, taking count of each hurt, each story. The jagged line of white tissue that met his auto mail port was slick with blood, but even that failed to hide the proof of the carnage that was his shoulder. Further down small scars littered his torso, leading the eye toward the taut pull of damaged tissue across his abdomen. Mercifully Ed couldn't see his back, and he did his best not to look, knowing what he'd find wouldn't be pretty and not wanting to remember anyway.

So yes, Ed knew how bad it was, he didn't blame the one night stands and occasional fuck buddies from turning their eyes away, but when he looked up there was something different in the General's eyes as he assessed Ed's body. His lips were thin and very slight lines pulled at the edges of his eyes, the only sign of age in an otherwise smooth face. The years had been kind to Mustang, very kind indeed.

Nothing was said as gentle hands wiped away the crusting blood from Ed's golden skin. The warmth of the damp towel seemed to sink into his very bones, heating his chilled form from the inside out. Tension bled away and mismatched shoulders slumped, leaning very slightly into the calloused touch of his commanding officer. Mustang's careful avoidance of Ed's skin didn't escape notice—he touched only where it was necessary and held his tense body away—it was the only thing that marred this otherwise perfect moment, and Ed carefully filed away the sensation to be dredged up later when he was feeling particularly, wantonly masochistic.

"Does it hurt?" Ed shook his head, not anymore it didn't. Not that he'd say that.

"Of course it doesn't," a derisive huff punctuated the false contempt written on Ed's face.

"No, I suppose you've had worse," Ed's eyes rose to meet Mustang's, whose face was cool and unreadable as usual. Ed broke first, his gaze darting away to stare at a point on the wall. His flat deliverance of a quiet "Fuck off, Roy," made him wince. He couldn't be slipping up this early, he'd never make it through the night.

Mustang didn't respond to Ed's half-hearted snarl as he moved to pick up the antiseptic. "I don't see any open wound," he sounded puzzled, "but sanitising it couldn't hurt." The clinical smell of the sticky paste wafted up to Ed's nose, cloyingly sweet with the lab-created mint doing its best to mask the reek of antiseptic.

Quick, strong fingers spread the moist goo over skin and Ed unsuccessfully held back a shiver as the coolness that had been briefly driven away came back full force. Taking advantage of Mustang's focus on the task at hand, Ed's aureate eyes fell upon the man he had been so studiously avoiding staring at.

The older man knelt next to the couch, his gaze about eye-level with Ed's clavicle. Still clad in his military blues, the only thing missing was the stiff collard jacket. Instead, a cleanly pressed white shirt hugged broad shoulders, it's top three buttons undone and its sleeves rolled up. A flicker of appreciation for the strong, pale forearms of his commanding officer flickered low in his stomach, the incredible white of cotton making Mustang's pale skin seem almost tan.

So caught up in ogling what he _most certainly should not have been ogling_ , Mustang's probing look caught the young alchemist off guard. If he was bothered by Ed's heated stare he didn't say it, opting instead to grab the roll of bandages off the low standing coffee table. Ed slid gracefully to the edge of the cushion, wanting to make this as quick and easy as possible so that Mustang would get the _fuck_ out and Ed could finally, _finally_ relieve the almost painful twitch of lust that was getting harder and harder to fight off. No longer hidden in shadows, the meagre light fell across Ed's body and he realised his mistake almost as soon has he moved. Ed felt rather than saw Mustang's hesitation as the scars on his back caught the light, confidence failed him as his heart stuck in his throat and he tried to move away, desperate to head off the judgement. He couldn't take it, not from Roy.

One large hand wrapped around Ed's auto mail wrist, another pressed over his clavicle, easing his body back down. Nothing was said and Roy's face was completely, utterly blank—even his eyes seemed dead. He looked at Ed— _through_ Ed—almost challenging him to try running again. Ed normally liked a challenge, but if he was being honest with himself he was so thrown off by the complete and utter lack of reaction on Roy's part that he just stared back. The brunette seemed satisfied with what he found in the depths of his subordinate's gaze, and he busied himself with wrapping up the wounded shoulder.

Roy was unable to keep his distance this time, and Ed found himself blushing as the stiff cotton collar of Roy's uniform brushed hot, bare skin. The older man stood, hunching over to wrap the bandage over Ed's ribs when he caught the lingering smell of roses—faint, delicate and _very_ feminine.

Jealousy boiled under Ed's skin, and he violently shoved away feelings of hurt and disappointment. He had no stock in Roy's life, he had no right to be angry—not that logic could do anything to abate his rage.

"Whatever whore's warming your bed has terrible taste in perfume," Ed snarled, then quickly drew in a shocked breath. God he should _not_ have said that. Looking up, Roy's face was surprisingly free of irritation, he looked more puzzled than outraged. He didn't stop working, but confusion turned quickly to understanding, transforming his features. A small smile graced his lips and he shrugged.

"You're overestimating the amount of free time I have to meet potential partners, Fullmetal," Roy's voice was low and spoken next to Ed's ear, soft hair barely skimmed his cheek and Ed held his breath. "I keep roses in my back yard, my clothesline fell into one of the bushes. It's been particularly windy lately, have you noticed?"

Ed knew he probably looked like an idiot, mouth hanging open and gaping like a fish. He didn't know what was weirder, the fact that Roy did his _own_ laundry, or that he kept _roses_. Roy's dark blue eyes glanced over Ed's features, one eyebrow raised as he tied off the cotton over his ribs. Elegant fingers didn't linger over the bare skin, but they didn't hesitate over the ugly scar either, touching it just as easily as he had touched unblemished flesh.

"So the great Flame Alchemist keeps roses, huh? Didn't take you for the type," Ed intended the jibe to come out as biting, covering his insecurity with sarcasm. Instead, it was filled with curiosity, gently probing at the secrecy of Roy's private life, absolutely enthralled by the prospect of closing the gap that professionalism wedged between them.

"They came with the house. Seemed like a shame to let them die," the explanation was accompanied by his small grin widening into a genuine smile—Ed was caught breathless at the rare sight—as he stood gracefully, brushing out invisible creases in his uniform slacks. Ed's gaze swept slowly up the General's hard body, he noted the rather provocative position, Ed's head directly at crotch level as Roy stood over him, closer than propriety would have dictated, and a shiver that had nothing to do with temperature ran down his spine.

Nothing escaped the Flame Alchemist; he bent at the waist, grabbing a soft throw blanket that had fallen to the floor. Shaking it out, he laid it gently over Ed's bare shoulders, tugging the ends together and wrapping him snugly in its warmth. Long, rough fingers ran down Ed's arms, pulling the downy blanket forward into his lap—a true fucking blessing, as the erection that he had been staving off for the last hour made itself known.

Roy's hands rested on slim shoulders as his eyes met those of his subordinate's. Ed's throat felt as the desert and he cursed the hair falling into his eyes as he ran his tongue over his lips. The moment seemed altogether too good to be true, and it shattered like glass as Roy hastily picked up his coat and brief case.

"Lock me out," his head jerked toward the entrance hall and his normally silken voice had a hard edge. God, of course it was too good to be true, Ed had gone and freaked him out, and now he probably knew, and he'd hate him even more. He'd never look at him the same way again, and when he did it would be a gaze polluted with loathing and disgust. _Fuck_.

Ed stood, keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders—though all vestiges of awkward boner had been killed by self loathing—as he followed Mustang to the door. The brunette hesitated on the threshold, one hand on the knob before looking back over his shoulder.

"You need to take better care of yourself Ed, if not for you then for the people that love you," Ed's eyes widened and sick dread slowly shrank away, replaced by tentative hope, "Take the day off tomorrow, and call me with an update," the heavy front door was yanked open and closed behind broad shoulder, slamming hard against the outside breeze. Ed approached slowly, one eye looking hesitantly through the peep hole. Mustang stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the apartment for one single solitary moment before turning on his heel and walking away briskly.

Ed didn't even try to fight off the scarlet blush, nor did he deny himself the wide, pleased smile. _Guess I better call Al tonight then_ , he turned toward the kitchen, spirits high as he hummed quietly to himself.


	4. Nicotine

_Chapter 3: Nicotine_

Roy Mustang was, generally speaking, not a very patient man. Oh, of course he was very good at putting on airs and playing parts, but deep down, beneath his stony façade of professionalism vexation simmered.

Edward had called the next morning—a Tuesday—to say that Alphonse and Winry would be in town the following evening—Wednesday night—which was two days ago. _Two days_ and the constant thorn in Roy's side that was his subordinate had not deigned to update him, even though he had been _specifically ordered_ to call in as soon as he knew something.

Now, Friday evening at six o'clock, Roy did not find himself surrounded by friends and colleagues knocking back shot after shot of smooth whiskey. Instead, he was alone in his office, having already destroyed a quarter of his own private stores. Which, granted, was _not_ an advisable thing to do, especially not for a man with the history Roy had—but goddammit he was just so _frustrated_.

Frustrated, yes, but if he was being honest he was mostly worried. He had been since Monday night—Ed's behaviour was not at all normal, and those _scars_ , god those scars.

Something clenched hard and hot around Roy's heart as his mind's eye conjured up that image—golden skin, taught over broad, muscled shoulders, the picture of perfection if one chose to ignore the white, slightly raised vestiges of what looked suspiciously like floggings. Plural. What was even more troubling to the Flame Alchemist was the pattern of how it healed—as if newly formed flesh stretched and tore anew to accommodate growth. It had to have happened while Ed was young and under Roy's command, another little detail that was so conveniently left out of his reports. Hatred for whoever had _dared_ to touch what was _his_ rose like bile in his throat and he choked back something that fell between a snarl and a dry sob. Edward, his beautiful, damaged, Edward had been let down by every person in a position to care for him, _every single time_.

Roy's dark hair fell over shadowed eyes as he downed the rest of the tumbler in his gloved hands. Long fingers came up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried very hard not to think about the implications of his lust. He'd been a failure as a man and a failure as a guardian, and if his twitching cock had anything to say about it he'd _continue_ to fail in the latter.

But fuck, pulling away that night had been so hard. It had to have been one of the most difficult thing's he'd ever done. To abandon the warmth of the Elric's tiny apartment and step in to the breezy night air, leaving Ed looking so deliciously tousled was truly a crime against humanity. Oh, and all the things he'd do...

Roy could almost taste the sweat on his tongue as he pictured licking a line down the taut cords of Ed's neck, relishing in the smell of sunlight radiating off golden skin. Warm flesh reddened beneath his calloused hand as it snaked its way behind the young alchemist's neck, nudging his strong jaw gently to the side so as to make room for Roy's soft bites and gentle licks. And god, the noises he'd make—gasps of pleasure and whimpers begging for more until he could no longer hold himself back and breathlessly beg— _Roy, please_ —as a single strong, steel arm made its way up between cotton and pale flesh, trailing white hot fire in its wake. And Ed being _Ed_ would flip the tables, twisting to straddle the General's lap, pressing down hard on Roy's straining erection. His leather pants stretched tight over his own arousal, and Roy would growl his approval into Ed's ear before having his lips captured, devoured by silky desire.

 _I need a better fucking hobby,_ Roy thought dimly, unwillingly dragging himself out of his alcohol induced fantasy to pour himself another drink. His dick was painfully hard, and his office depressingly empty as he emptied the last drop of whiskey into the glass. _I wonder when that happened_? Probably somewhere between real concern for his subordinate's obviously painful past and mulling over what his skin would taste like. There was something really, truly wrong with Roy Mustang.

 _I'm drunk._

The thought was surprising in its clarity—it had been years since Roy had imbibed this much. Things like this were always a slippery slope for him, and he generally knew better than to touch the crystal decanter in his office, reserved normally for especially tight-lipped visitors. But something about this ridiculous obsession that had taken over Roy drove him to extremes, and it was _not_ healthy.

Now, after an entire decanter of whiskey and who knows how many hours, Roy saw two options: one, pass out on the couch in the office and risk someone coming in to find him the next morning, or two, stumble back to his own home while trying desperately to hold his shit together for the three blocks it took him to hide his face in plush pillows, hopefully blocking out his intrusive thoughts. Deciding the walk, while not immediately rewarding, was ultimately the more responsible choice, Roy grabbed his briefcase, splashed some water on his face, and headed out the door.

The tall, slightly dizzy General leaned a bit too heavily on the banister of the back stairwell. It was the long way around, but god forbid he run into anyone—though that wasn't very like at... _ten o'clock?_ Fuck. Thankfully it was a weekend, it wasn't likely he'd be seen slipping out the rear entrance.

As quietly as his drunken stupor would allow, the heavy door squeaked open and Roy took off at a brisk pace, crossing the open air of the parade ground to hug the wall of the library. Lights showed through the dirt streaked windows, bathing the ground in front of the brunette a sallow yellow. Roy shook his head at the ridiculous military overspending—no one save for the Elric's would ever be caught dead in the library at ten p.m. on a weekend.

" _Fuck_ you!"

The shrill female voice shattered the silence of the night, startling Roy from his inner musings. That was close—the library entrance, maybe—and more angry than threatened. Roy approached the edge of the building carefully, making sure to stay within the cool grasp of shadows cast by the romanesque pillars.

The scene before him was nothing the hadn't seen before—Edward Elric being bodily removed from the library by his brother and the young miss Rockbell—though Roy was a little put out at the general timing of it all. If Ed was at Central why didn't he stop by? Or at least _call_? He had been out of his mind with worry and the little bastard was fine all along.

Ed thrashed in Alphonse's arms, breaking free and stumbling just out of his grasp. Winry reached a tentative hand out toward the eldest brother, flinching back when he snarled at her. _I can't hear a damn thing..._ Ed turned on his heel and headed back toward the library and something just snapped in Alphonse. Roughly, he jerked Ed's automail wrist, yanking his body around to face him. Toe to toe, the brothers were about the same height, though Al's glowering easily gave him and extra inch or two of intimidation. Quiet words hissed out from between clenched teeth and with no warning Al's arm snapped back and he punched his older brother square in the jaw before stiffly walking away, leaving Winry to pick up the pieces.

"Edward, what did you _do_?" Roy's muttered exclamation fell unheard into the night, and placing his left hand on the rough hewn stone of the building he edged closer to the couple, _needing_ to hear what was being said. The Flame Alchemist was wary of approaching too closely, he knew from experience that Ed's senses were honed sharply, the hard won results of his trial by fire.

"... He didn't mean anything by it Ed," Winry's voice was soft as she helped her companion to sit up. Not very gently, she twisted his jaw to the light to get a better look at what was sure to soon be a bruise of spectacular proportions.

"You know he did. This is _your_ fault for putting those stupid ideas in his head, you know," Winry huffed as she sat back on the heels of her feet. "Maybe if you'd stop being a stubborn asshole and just _have the surgery_ then he'd stop worrying himself sick over you. You're being selfish, you know," Roy frowned, apprehension pulling at his thoughts—surgery?

"That's really easy to say when you aren't the one being cut up, you know," Ed snorted, leaning his head back on the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. "What can you promise me? What can you give me that's concrete? Because as shitty as this is—" he lifted his steel arm, and in that moment Roy noticed how unwieldy it was, how hard it shook, "—it's still better than not having it at all," what the _actual_ fuck is going on?

Winry's shoulders slumped and her hard mask fell away. She looked absolutely, utterly defeated as her stared hard at the ground. "Ed, your nerves are beraking down. I just—I don't know how much I can do. I'm good, but I'm not a miracle worker. I'll try my best," her quiet words rang in Roy's ears, and he was defended by the implications. Tears began to roll down the young woman's cheeks, and she moved to envelope her companion in a tight embrace. Nothing was spoken between them, but the tender way Ed's human hand reached up to stroke her hair spoke volumes.

A twinge of disappointment sparked low in Roy's stomach, muted by his confused disconcertment, but not drowned by it. _Selfish, Mustang, you're so goddamn selfish._ There was something seriously wrong with Ed's health, and yet Roy still managed to be disappointed by the fact that he was straight.

Feeling incredibly voyeuristic, Roy inched back behind the wall of the library. _I need a goddamn smoke_. He turned, only a bit unsteady despite the massive amount of alcohol he'd had, and headed back to the front entrance of Central. Might as well dig out his emergency pack from under the piles of paperwork he'd yet to do, the night was better spent on his office couch anyway. At least there wasn't anymore booze _there_.

"General Mustang!"

 _Shit._

"I'm glad you hadn't left, the desk clerk said you didn't check out but your office was empty and I—"

"What can I do for you, Alphonse?" Roy's smooth voice cut in, wanting to make this encounter as quick as possible.

"Can we... talk inside?" His brown eyes glanced furtively about the empty parade grounds. Perhaps the front steps weren't the best place to chat.

"Come to my office," Roy ambled up the stairs without looking back, he knew the boy would follow him without protest. Alphonse always was the more passive of the Elric brothers.

Awkward silence folded around the two as they made their way to Roy's office. Bypassing the outer area, he didn't even bother to turn on the lights—better that anyone passing by think it was empty, anyway.

"Take a seat then," Roy dropped his briefcase and nodded to the uncomfortable straight-backed chair in front of his grand mahogany desk. Al shook his head, biting his lip so hard it nearly bled. Roy sighed.

"I need your help. Brother's automail is starting to fail, the nerves around his port are deadened. He needs surgery to strip them so he can be refitted with another port but that—"

"Would involve amputating more, which he's not keen to do," Roy finished lamely. Alphonse looked close to tears, but he held himself upright, nodding his agreement. "How did this even happen? I've never heard of automail deteriorating like that," one hip leaned elegantly against the side of the desk, more so to keep the General upright than for comfort.

"Winry thinks it was probably the transmutations. You're not meant to do that in the first place, and brother did it so _often_ that the connection started to mess up—I don't, I'm not explaining it right. Just... help? Please? Someone needs to convince him to go through with the surgery, and he won't hear another word from me or Winry." The youngest Elric looked so _desperate_ that Roy had to bite back his immediate agreement. He couldn't involve himself in this, he was already dangerously close to Fullmetal.

"And what happens if he doesn't do the surgery?" Roy's tone was light, but the look on Al's face told him everything he needed to know.

"Blood poisoning, most likely. Death by infection—not quick, and not easy. _Please_ talk to him, sir," Roy's stiff shoulders sagged beneath the weight of responsibility.

"Alphonse, you know as well as I do that he doesn't listen to me. Hughes would have a much better chance at convincing him," one last ditch effort was wasted, it was like reasoning with a brick wall. Alphonse's face was resolute, he squared his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height. It looked like he wouldn't let this one go without a fight.

"Brother _likes_ Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, but he _respects_ you, sir," Roy's lips were set in a hard line; Edward Elric never showed a single inkling of respect for his commanding officer—and yet, if Alphonse said it, it must be at least a _little_ bit true.

"You should go home, Al," the young man moved to speak, but was silenced by Roy's gloved hand signalling a pause, "I'll call him tomorrow, I promise. For now I need to think it over," Alphonse didn't looked entirely convinced, but at the very least he knew that the General was a man of his word and he held his tongue.

"...Thank you, sir. We'll be looking for your call," the silent threat to _make_ the call was poorly hidden under a slightly threatening tone. Roy nodded, motioning to shoo the young man out. As the door clicked shut, he let himself sag against the desk, revelling in the solitude of his office. How did he get himself into this? _Why_ did he get himself into this?

Roy grabbed a battered pack of cigarettes from the left hand drawer before locking the office behind him and heading to the roof. He didn't smoke often, and the little box had seen better days, but when you need a vice and you're out of your habitual one, sometimes you just have to settle.

The trek up to the roof was one fraught with jumbled thoughts, each one fighting for dominance over the other. He was at war with himself; lust and logic battled, vying for a space at the forefront of his mind. The resulting combat zone was littered with bits of concern and imagined trysts against his bookshelf.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Roy nudged the door open. Crisp night air blew onyx hair into sapphire eyes, and a grimace formed on his lips. Approaching the edge, Roy grabbed the pack out of his pocket and slipped a single cigarette between his teeth, lighting it off a small flame he snapped into existence. His watch, read under the bright light of the full moon, showed it to be midnight. Binge drinking always did mess with his internal clock.

"Care to bum one?"

Roy jolted to alert, whipping around to see none other than the subject of his wet dreams and waking nightmares. How long had he been there? How did Roy not _notice_? Quickly arranging his features into indifference, Roy cocked an eyebrow.

"I didn't know that you smoked," he held out a single thin stick, which Ed took gratefully.

"I don't. The situation calls for it," the brunette sparked up another small flame, and Ed's deep drag belied his protest. Smoke billowed out from between slightly parted lips, dancing in the twittering lights of Central before fading away into oblivion.

How like smoke we humans are.

"How much do you know, then?" Well, Edward Elric never was known for beating around the bush. Roy shrugged.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come off it, bastard. I'm crippled, not blind. I saw you at the library, and I'm _sure_ Al's said something by now," Ed glared, facing his commanding officer with a snarl on his lips.

"Fine. You caught me. Surprise, surprise, people care about you," Roy turned his head to look at the golden-haired young man that was standing _far_ to close for propriety. His answer apparently did not please Ed.

"I'm not doing it Mustang, I don't care what you say. And before you threaten to court marshal me again, don't—that's _not_ how the military works, Sciezka told me," Roy gritted his teeth, so much for _that_ excuse. It's too bad, he'd gotten away with it for so long.

"Can you honestly say that this poses no risk, Fullmetal? _Can_ you? Or are are you just scared of what might happen?" Ed was uncharacteristically calm as he took another long drag on his dwindling cigarette.

"I'm not scared of _anything_ ," aureate eyes caught Roy's own and golden lips quirked up into a mocking smirk.

"You're lying."

"And _you're_ drunk."

"Yes, yes I am," Edward looked pleased with himself, thinking that he'd adequately derailed the conversation. _Not this time, Fullmetal._

"Not doing it is sure death, Fullmetal. Think of the people you'd be leaving behind. Think of Alphonse, think of _Winry_. Think of the future you two might have had, ended prematurely by an _infection_ of all things," Ed looked up at his commanding officer, lovely features screwed up in confusion.

"I'm not dating Winry, you idiot, I'm _gay_."

Roy was certain he'd find the horrified look on Ed's face amusing—him having clearly said too much—had he not been slack-jawed and blank minded himself. Suddenly, every single unspeakably erotic thought that passed by Roy's mind came rolling into his consciousness all at once, a thousand beautifully dizzying possibilities made themselves known, Roy's throat was dry and the unfinished cigarettes was flicked out into the starry night.

"That's... beside the point," the low rumble of the General's voice seemed to shock Ed out of his own thoughts. "I told you to take care of yourself for the ones that love you, remember? People care, Edward, and you doing things like this makes it hurt for them to keep caring," Ed dropped his own cigarettes to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. He seemed to consider Roy's words for a moment before edging a bit closer.

"What about you? Are _you_ one of the ones who care?" Ed's voice was so quiet it was almost lost to the wind. Roy didn't even have to think about is answer.

"Of _course_ I am—"

Lips, hot and dry pressed against Roy's, stealing his response. Shocked beyond all belief, it was all the Flame Alchemist could do to not push his subordinate against the wall and take him _then and there_. One human hand curled into military blues, dragging Roy's mouth down and pressing their bodies together in a searing moment of frantically lustful grabbing. Roy's senses recovered and he brought his hands slowly to Ed's shoulders, gripping them very lightly and relishing the dichotomy of flesh and steel.

And then it was gone. Ed ripped himself away, eyes wild and lips swollen.

" _Fuck_. You taste like whiskey," Roy's brow furrowed, an apology died on his lips as he watched what could have been his—what _had_ been, for a moment—step back.

"I—I'm sorry. That was a mistake. I—" teeth had captured his bottom lip, Ed looked lost. Words had failed him, and he turned and ran, leaving Roy feeling as if the flesh had been seared away from his bones.


	5. Vices

_Chapter 4: Vices_

The clock struck ten, chiming entirely too loudly for Edward Elric's sleep-addled mind. Last night had been a complete and utter _disaster_. There was only one thing Ed could do at this point: avoid General Roy Mustang for the rest of his natural life (which, if Winry was to be believed, would be quite short). Ed buried his face into the slightly lopsided pillow, bemoaning his idiocy. How the hell could he go and do something as inconceivably stupid as tongue-fucking his straight, _drunk_ , commanding officer?

The feel of Roy's lips beneath his own—made soft and pliable with booze—was better than any fantasy his imagination had, or could, fabricate. But therein lies the problem: he was shit-faced drunk, so beyond the level of acceptable inebriation that there wasn't a single doubt in Ed's mind as to the _wrongness_ of his actions.

No excuse could be made, Ed was in full control of his faculties and had just taken Roy's kind, _friendly_ words to mean something different than what they were. Bitter humiliation settled low in his stomach as he recalled the way Roy's hands came up to rest on mismatched shoulders—the tightening of his long fingers a prelude to his inevitable rejection. And frankly, Ed just couldn't handle that. Not that he had never been rejected before, but rather a rejection from the man that had awoken his awareness of sex, who had sparked fumbling desire every time he walked into the room.

Even if sex itself was an impossibility, Ed _thrived_ on those moments spent in his commanding officers proximity, relishing the sharp lines of his silhouette and the commanding grace of his comportment. Now? Now he'd just have to transfer to Drachma, sub-zero temperature be damned. He couldn't show his face in Central again. Roy was, of course, not known for being a gossiper; Ed was not worried in the least about his transgression becoming public knowledge, it was the knowing, _judging_ look that he'd find in his object of affection's eyes that would slowly rot Ed from the inside out.

And yet he couldn't stop thinking about how everything had been perfect for a single, warm, frantic that's what _really_ hurt the most—that it felt so damn _right_. Another groan broke through Ed's teeth, muffled by the pillow. If only he could curl up under these sheets and and never leave his room, maybe then—if shame and regret didn't kill him first—he could die in peace and just forget all about taking advantage of the one man that had ever merited more than a passing thought. _Fuck_.

"Brother?" Al's quiet voice was accompanied by a soft knock on the thin wood of the door.

Ed lifted his face out of the pillow, "Fuck off," he grumbled, fully intent on seeing no one for the rest of forever.

"Open the damn door, Edward," nope. Nope, nope, nope. This was _not_ happening, Roy Mustang was _not_ standing outside his bedroom door, Ed was clearly having a mental breakdown. In shock, Ed had bolted up, staring at the offending piece of carbon fiber standing between him and the man that would surely be the death of him.

"Fine, I'm coming in then—"

" _No!_ " Ed scrambled out of bed to barricade the door with his body. "I—uh—give me a minute for fucks sakes," harsh words were made unbelievable by the uncertainness of their delivery. The blond alchemist snatched a pair of sleep pants off of the floor, glancing around at the disarray of his room—nothing to be done about it now. He shrugged on a white button-up shirt that had been hanging off the back of his chair, hoping to god it was clean, before opening the door a fraction of an inch.

"What do you want?" Ed snarled into Roy's chest, unable to meet his eyes. Al looked like he was caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement; he shook his head, turning on his heel to return to his own bedroom.

"I want to talk. Can I come in, please?" Roy's voice was soft, Ed glanced up, gauging his mood—little good it did, the bastard had an impeccable poker face—before stepping back to make room for his broad form to step through.

"Look, I already apologised for last night, I'm not saying it again." Roy made his way to the still-warm bed, perching easily on the crumpled sheets and looking entirely too good to be true.

"I'm not here for an apology," his head tilted, Roy's words were slow and gentle, as if comforting a scared animal. Ed leaned back against the wall next to the door, propping one foot up on the desk chair next to him. "Then what _are_ you here for? Don't tell me it's about the damn surgery," _because I swear to all that is holy if Alphonse called him down here for that bullshit he'll wish he was still made of metal_.

Roy's face was inscrutable. He was quiet for several long breaths, and Ed felt the awkward silence pull at his nerves. That perfect alabaster mask cracked and Roy- _General Roy Mustang_ —sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.

"I'm here for _you_ , you infuriating, horrible, obstinate, _beautiful_ man."

"I—wait, what?" Ed's mind blanked, his jaw dropped open in stunned shock. He couldn't mean—he couldn't _possibly_ be—... could he?

"Last night," Roy held his hand up, cutting off Ed from interruptions (like he had the presence of mind to form a proper sentence anyway), "your actions were not... _unwelcome_ ," cryptic sonofabitch.

"What are you saying exactly?" Ed's voice was low, needing to be _absolutely fucking positive_ before attempting another scene like last night.

"I'm saying, _Edward_ , that I very much so enjoyed that entirely too short kiss," the smile that graced Roy's lips was the most genuine, open thing he'd ever seen on his superior's face, and Ed couldn't _not_ touch him.

The small distance between the wall and the bed was closed in an instant, though when Ed was within reach he found that he didn't know what he wanted to do first. He settled for raising his human hand to run his fingers over Roy's strong jaw, brushing his thumb over silken lips. Looking down at Roy's impossibly blue eyes, time seemed to stop. Warm fingers clutched at his bare hips, sliding easily between the unbuttoned cotton shirt, Roy turned his head, nuzzling into Ed's hand, peppering light kisses onto trembling fingers. His head bent slightly, resting on the smooth planes of Ed's torso, and he was left savouring the warmth of it all—the skin, the moment, the simple feeling of _Roy_. The young man shifted his grip on Roy's chin, tugging his face up to look at him. Painfully slow, Ed lowered his face to that of his commanding officer's, intent on rekindling the contact he had too hastily abandoned the night before.

"Wait," the quiet interruption shot daggers through Ed and he moved to pull away, yet was thwarted by the strong hands that hard circled around his back, pulling him closer into the overwhelming heat that was Roy.

"I have a few conditions—" Ed snarled, his glare a mixture of hurt and apprehension. "Of _course_ you do, you sack of—" Roy cut of the expletive with a brief press of lips upon lips, chaste in its action, but with all the promise of what was yet to come.

"I don't do casual. Not with _you_. But if you up and die on me then long-term isn't really an option," calloused fingers caressed the marred skin of Ed's back, and he found it increasingly difficult to pay attention to the content of Roy's words, focusing rather on the timber of his voice as it vibrated against his flesh. "If you want to pursue anything, you have to to promise me you'll go through with the surgery," Ed frowned.

"Don't go thinking this changes anything, bastard. I won't be ordered around by you," his sneer held no venom, and he was positive that Roy easily saw through his uncooperative façade. A smile tugged at the elder man's lips—disgustingly charming—putting Ed off-kilter.

"I never ordered you to do anything. I'm trying to strike a deal. You take care of yourself _now_ , and I'll take care of you _later_ ," innuendo dripped from his honeyed words, and the growl in response was one of lust, not anger. Ed tangled one hand in dark hair, running his fingers through silken strands before shoving Roy's body into the downy mattress and sliding gracefully to straddle his thighs.

"Fine, you manipulative asshole," teeth nipped at pale delicate skin, "I'll do the goddamn surgery, but you _better_ be worth it," Ed felt a sigh tickle his neck neck as Roy's hands shifted to shove him down into the crook of his arm. Ed's lithe body wrapped around the object of his obsession, not quite believing just yet that this _was_ in fact real, and not just a cruel dream conjured up by his damaged mind.

"Oh, it _will_ be," the quiet assurance was punctuated by another soft, short kiss—one that this time, did not end in loneliness and regret. Roy's tongue ran probingly over Ed's bottom lip, he took no more convincing to deepen the kiss and the taste was not of alcohol, but of bitter coffee, biting lust, and fragile hope—the only vice Ed would ever need.


End file.
